For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn

Does anyone know the significance of the six words I've used for a title here?

Friends of Ernest Hemingway bet him (after a night of drinking) he couldn't tell a story using only six words. The title of this entry is what he came up with. "For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn" is considered the Father of Flash Fiction (though that would be taking the term to an extreme). It is also considered by some to be Hemingway's best work. It is certainly his shrewdest work. Wonder how much he won in that bet.

Here's a link to a like-minded blog entry (I stole his idea for a slightly different purpose) by a colleague of mine...

http://absventures.wordpress.com/2009/07/22/six-words-to-venture-funding-well-almost/

From "A Hunger"

CHAPTER 17
I told Carrie Nelson I needed some time to think and begged her to meet me after the coming night of fortune telling. She reluctantly agreed.
I wasn’t done with her. I hadn’t even had a chance to get started with her and now I’d been ambushed by another, more sinister shockwave. I needed to calm down and get a plan together. There were now two distinct moving pieces to deal with – Ms. Twilight Nelson and a Philippino drug dealer.
I had very little information and that could wind up being both good and bad. I didn’t know anything about what the police found, what direction the investigation had gone. Was there anything that could implicate me if I was on hand to offer something to compare to? Were my fingerprints in a database somewhere? I also had no idea what Franco Espinoza knew. Beyond being a professional thug, he could have had his own intelligence service up here in southern Maine; I simply didn’t know what I was truly up against.
And it hardly mattered. Should I squat here, where at least one person – Ms. Carrie Nelson – knows my crime? Should I risk that she would turn me over to either the police or worse, Espinoza? Logic said, Get the fuck out of Dodge.
My odds weren’t good and had little chance to improve, but I’m not a betting man and I never have been. I made this drive for a reason. I wanted my answers and I wanted to be alive to see Avery again. So, I thought, I’ll be careful. I’ll speak with Carrie later. I was still confident she could answer my questions. Right then, though, I thought I’d take a calculated risk.
* * *
Saco Public Library is a stone structure just north of Downtown at the junction of Routes 1 and 9. Its sheer red tile roof made me think there ought to be a fiddler up there, playing to lead the rats from Hamlin and the snakes from the Emerald Isle, etc. My metaphors, if I learn them as a child, tend to mix.
I pulled into its small parking lot and shut off my lights. Following my quick shower, it was quarter to seven and I thought a miracle would be in order for this small quiet library to still be open. One car, an old burgundy Grand Marquis with a crack across its windshield, sat in the far corner. With nothing to lose, I sauntered up and pulled on the heavy wooden door.
From her name tag, I found out that Claire was the Senior Librarian and with a smile I assumed that didn’t refer to her age. Claire’s silver hair was cropped short and thick glasses magnified gray eyes.
“Fifteen minutes, young man.” Her voice was soft and disarming, even if there was a bit of a scold in the message.
I flashed my best smile – one that Avery would have read right through. “Do you have the Press-Herald out on the floor?”
“Only the last two weeks. What’re you looking for?” This last she said glancing up at the clock on the high wall behind her vast Senior Librarian desk.
“August last,” I said, flashing some culture.
“She a friend of yours?”
I should have expected this and should have tailored my facial expression accordingly. Damn. I’m no spy.
“I’m sorry?” A story popped into my head.
“You want to read about the Espinoza girl, right?” Her face didn’t match the question in her voice. Her face told me what I was here for.
“I’m looking for historical stock quotes, actually, for a report I have to write. I don’t know anyone named Espinoza.”
Claire nodded, but didn’t say anything further. She turned away from me and circled her desk to my left. As she tugged at a wooden drawer file, I scanned the main room of the library. The two microfiche viewers were against the far wall, overlooking the parking lot and my car.
She handed me a card on which she’d scribbled a series of letters and numbers and I thought I may need a code-breaker. Claire pointed to the fiche machines and said, “Just to the right is another set of drawers like this.” She waved a hand at the digging she’d just done. “It’s labeled Portland Press-Herald.”
I snatched the card and once again flashed her my thirty-two. “I appreciate it.”
She returned the smile. “You’ve got thirty minutes for your research.” My face prompted her to add, “I shouldn’t have assumed.”
It took me seven minutes to pull three weeks of August 1993 and nearly ten minutes to load the damn machine. I printed as many pages as I could as fast as I could and Claire never made a complaining peep. By 7:25pm I’d paid Saco Public Library $11.70 for the printouts and was headed back to the Hampton.
* * *
I grabbed another drive-thru coffee, grabbed a legal pad at a drug store, and set all my materials about me on the queen bed in my room. I arranged the newspapers chronologically in one-week piles, left to right and opened the notebook. I wanted to have a clearer picture before Carrie came knocking. I started on August 11th and tried to stick to any mention of evidence, and whether the piece of evidence was confirmed by the police or only reported by the paper. I skimmed until August 18th before I slammed the pen down and closed the notebook.
Don’t get frustrated, I told myself. I glanced at the alarm clock on the night stand to my left. 9:03pm. There was plenty of time to stay calm.
I almost skipped a few days, but the urge subsided. It was a good thing. On August 19th, a source within the South Portland PD expressed frustration at the pace of the investigation and told a reporter what little they’d uncovered. The officer confirmed that Bianca Espinoza had been strangled. The only other thing they could substantiate, the officer went on to state, was that she’d been murdered elsewhere and dumped at the scene, just off the highway by the Maine Mall Road.
Holy shit.
The fact almost knocked me down. It was a powerful fact, but I almost fell over more because it was a fact I already knew – I’d read it in the paper Carrie had in her purse. My initial shock hadn’t allowed me to concentrate on it, or its impact.
I’d left Bianca at Ms. Twilight’s and bolted. Hadn’t I? Someone, and flashing neon arrows in my head pointed at the visitor I expected later that night, cleaned up after me.
I got up from my research with a renewed smile on my face and went to the bathroom. I would have whistled on the way, if I’d been able. I blew my nose and looked at my complexion. Pale. My lower back and upper legs ached and I thought influenza was wrapping its hands around my throat, if you’ll pardon the chosen personification.
It’d been a long day – packing Avery at home, the drive up to UNH, unpacking, the emotions of good-bye, the emotions of events in Maine. Television was to be avoided. If I turned on the tube, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be awake to answer Ms. Twilight’s light knocking. A walk would have been a good idea, if not for my choice of hotel. Industrial Park Road wasn’t well lit and lacked for sights.
That was when, not Ms. Twilight, but an adrenaline rush came knocking on my door.

Through the peep hole, all I could see was the convex image of a hat. It was royal blue with two red squares and white writing – Domino’s Pizza. I exhaled, annoyed, and tugged the door open.
The guy had a wild, unkempt beard, flaming red. He was a full head shorter than me, explaining why I could only see the logo on his hat through the door. He looked as annoyed as I was.
“Two pepperoni, both extra cheese,” he deadpanned. “That’ll be twenty-five even, dude.”
“Sorry, chief.” Did I mention I hate the term ‘dude’? “I didn’t order any pizzas.”
Now it was Redbeard’s turn to exhale. “I don’t have time for this.”
Man, that’s the kind of response I would have gotten from Avery. Except that I would have been bullshitting her.
I thought direct may be the best approach here. Redbeard seemed pretty no-nonsense. “I didn’t order any pizzas, dude.”
He didn’t raise his voice, but I could tell he was getting increasingly agitated with me; which was fine. “Caller said Hampton Inn. Gave this room number.” The clipped sentences were a nice touch.
I raised three fingers in front of my face. “I didn’t order any fucking pizzas.” My voice and tone were completely neutral and all but the curse word was non-threatening. Granted, it wasn’t a clipped sentence, but…
I noticed his shoulders tense and thought he might take a swing. I was sweating and had a headache. I think I was also smiling – a sick, provoking smile. Go on, go on.
Redbeard turned and walked away, down the hall and toward the elevator.
* * *
I sat at the desk in the corner of my room, feeling small in the face of what could have been. I thought about the feeling I’d had when I thought Redbeard may give me an opening; when I thought he may make the first move. The anticipation was powerful and the tension that took hold of my muscles at that moment I could only relate to one other thing I’d ever felt before. Just before I’d stabbed Avery in that fateful dream, I’d been filled with a desire for violence – a hunger of sorts. I really wanted Redbeard, in that moment, to give me an excuse to lash out at him in blind rage. I really wanted an excuse to try and kill him.

New excerpts! This one from BENEFICIARY...

Taylor made up his mind on the ride to Newport that FBI Agent Ronald Mackey was in no way to blame for his grandfather’s death. A flame of guilt burnt inside him, and Taylor sought to pin the full burden of blame on himself. If he’d only stuck around; he just couldn’t push the thought away.

“The ER desk said I’d find you up here,” Taylor said. “I always assumed the morgue was in the basement. Too many movies for me, I guess.” He forced a smile.

Mackey looked confused, then his face cleared with understanding. “Your grandfather isn’t here. His body was released to Mr. Callaghan at the scene. My deepest condolences, by the way.” Taylor nodded acceptance to the sentiment. Mackey offered his own nervous smile and gestured toward two armchairs at the end of the hall.

“In a case like this, with a conclusive cause of death, it isn’t customary to have an autopsy performed. If you feel differently, however, I think I could pull a string or two.” Mackey lowered himself smoothly into one of the chairs. Taylor remained standing, any excuse to punish himself.

“No. That’s not necessary.” Taylor turned around, looking down the hall back toward the elevator. He surveyed the ward, his mind working.
“Why are you up on eight, then? I’ve always heard this was the mental health floor.” Another half smile.

Mackey bowed his head. “You’re right. That’s exactly what it is.”

Taylor sensed something was about to hit him in the face. His short fuse burned ever so slightly, and he felt his grief simmering and changing. Anger stirred somewhere deep. It longed to make an appearance. Some form of outburst, some way of expressing all the pent up emotion – it’d be therapeutic to some degree, no?

“And you are clearly not telling me something, Mackey.”

“Again, you’re right.” Mackey stood. “Why don’t you sit down?”

Taylor took a quick first step toward Mackey and had the FBI man pinned against the wall before a defense could be mounted. Both men were surprised by the assault. “What is it?” Taylor seethed.

Mackey had no choice. He relayed the night’s events, including everything Taylor’s grandfather had said as he lay dying. Mackey concluded the report and as the color left his face, Taylor released his shirt front. He felt Mackey’s shoes make contact with the tile floor and only then realized that he’d had him off the ground an inch.

Taylor felt dizzy, shaken to the core. His father had shot and killed his grandfather.

His vision danced, shivered. Taylor saw his grandfather’s smile. He pictured the porch, the walkway, the front lawn. He shook his head and the image shifted. A chalk outline, partly on the stone walkway, partly in the lawn. The spot was soaked and pooled with blood.

Taylor inched away from Mackey and bumped into the other armchair, his momentum sitting him down. His head found his hands on its way to in between his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut.

He considered his father for just a moment. He thought of how his grandfather - his late grandfather – had described a younger version of Thomas Andrews that day at lunch.

Something snapped. Taylor stood slowly. His eyes were blurred, but this time tears were to blame.

“I want to see him.” The tone was dead, flat. His head felt clear now.

“Is that a good idea, under the…”

Taylor was already on the move.
* * *
Taylor hesitated at the doorway. Apprehension within fought anger, he was ashamed to admit. His face burned and Taylor realized he was clenching both his teeth and the muscles in his face, as if his frown was coupling with his rage and both planned on overtaking his will.

Taylor balled his fists as he crossed the threshold. He thought of how often his fists had balled themselves in the last thirty-six hours. His hands were no doubt unsure of themselves.

He sensed Mackey standing behind him, just outside the room.

And then he saw his father. Thomas Andrews lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Taylor focused on the resemblance. His lips quaked and at that instant his mind was made up.

Taylor sprang forth, as he’d done to Mackey moments before. After a step-and-a-half and a blink of his eyes, Taylor let fly. His right hand reared back and delivered a vicious uppercut. At the same time his father lifted his head slightly and turned toward Taylor. The turn of the head played perfectly. It may have been a glancing blow otherwise.

Taylor’s fist made contact just below the left eye. Thomas Andrews head rocked back, his eyes rolled in his head and momentum carried him out of the bed on the far side.

Electronics sprang to life, their tinny alarms issuing warnings that monitors had dislodged, IV lines were compromised, and Taylor Andrews had just scored a first round knockout.

Mackey hadn’t expected Taylor’s reaction, though he should have. He dove forward, burying his right shoulder into the small of Taylor’s back and wrapped his arms like a middle linebacker. He let his legs go from under him, rolling to his left, and pulled Taylor hard to the white tile floor.

“What are you thinking?!” Mackey shouted. Given the father though, he could hardly fault the son. For all their similar physical features, it seemed that only Taylor had been blessed with backbone.

“Get the fuck off me!” Taylor was strong, and pissed, and he managed to get his feet under him. He wasn’t trained by the FBI, however, and Mackey regained control, using Taylor’s upward momentum and weight to spin him and toss him back into the room’s lone chair.

They were both breathing hard and Mackey said, “Get out of here.” He pointed to the doorway. “Get something to drink and try to calm down. Meet me in the main lobby in twenty minutes.” He spoke quietly, the calm in his voice was meant to bring Taylor back down as well.

Taylor glared at Mackey and wiped a bloodied lip on his sleeve. Momentarily and silently he obeyed. Taylor had been in the room for less than sixty seconds, but his point was made and now he was gone.
* * *
Was it the morphine playing tricks? Beyond the bullet wounds, Thomas Andrews had a sore back and a splitting headache. And this bed, Christ. Was it made of cement?

The haze of the drugs lifted and Thomas recalled the dream he’d been having. Five year old Taylor had towered over him, asked why Thomas had left his mother, and landed a jarring uppercut to Thomas’ cheek. You know, as he considered the dream, it wasn’t so much a headache he had. His cheek was throbbing.

“This fucking bed,” he cursed, trying to adjust his position. He came to and, rubbing his cheek with a hand, glanced up at the bottom of his hospital bed. “What the hell?” Had he actually said those two lines? Was his voice audible or part of his internal monologue? No idea.

From a distance, Thomas heard the grunts and scuffling of physical exertion, then electronic beeping, then footsteps. He shook his head and fought his muscles to obey the synapses of his brain and their electric orders. He managed to get to his knees and felt like he’d been hit by a truck.

Two men were leaving the room, just as two nurses rushed in. They were speaking to him, Thomas knew, but the words were as jumbled as the other noises had been. It was as if the nurses had their mouths submerged in water. The mer-nurses circled the bed and seized him by each elbow.

“Could I possibly get some Tylenol and a glass of water?”

The nurses paused. They stared at him a moment before resuming their hasty push toward the bed.

Thomas made out a word. One of the nurses had just said ‘son’, and she’d been asking a question.“My son, yes.” Thomas nodded vigorously. “He’s just a little boy.” The nurses eased him back onto the bed and hoisted the starched blanket up to Thomas’ midriff. He smiled and hoped the two nurses could understand him. He slowed his speech, trying not to sound condescending. “But even at this age, he has his mother’s temper.”

What are we reading?

Let me know what you're reading right now...

I just finished The Tin Collectors, Stephen Cannell's first book in the Shane Scully series from 2000. Tonight, I'm starting Every Dead Thing by Dublin's John Connolly. Every Dead Thing starts the Charlie Parker series in 1999. After that, I'll be on to Gerald's Game by Stephen King. I'm told its actually scary.

Myron Bolitar

Any of you know this name? Should you?

He grew up the older of two brothers in Livingston, NJ, starring for the high school hoops team and was heavily recruited by major programs. He chose Duke and carried the team to two national championships in the early 1980s. He was a top 10 overall choice of the Boston Celtics in the mid-1980s. He blew out his knee in the pre-season and never played an NBA game. He did a little investigative work for the Feds, got a law degree from Harvard and started representing athletes.

Well, he sort of did these things...

Myron Bolitar is the protagonist in nine novels by Harlan Coben. The novels are fast-paced mysteries characterized by twists and turns and, for the most part, you won't see the end coming.

Coben is in my top five for two reasons. First off, I'm a fan of the twist. I don't want a mystery to be too easy for the reader to figure out and I, as an author, really appreciate Coben's ability to bend and twist and throw the 12-6 curve ball.

Secondly, the characters are compelling. OK, I'll admit it. Myron and his cast of cohorts are a little satirical. Myron, the lead, is a consummate gentleman from a loving family. He's a former star athlete who made good after sports. He also is a trained pugilist with a knack for finding missing people. His best friend, Windsor Horne Lockwood, III (or simply Win), has sculptured good looks, says "Articulate" when he answers the phone, lives in expensive apartments, runs a family investment firm...oh, and he's deadly. Etc.

The thing about these characters - when you've been away from Myron Bolitar for three years and Long Lost comes out in April 2009, it's like putting on a really comfortable t-shirt. You laugh at the witty exchanges between Myron and Win and think, as an author, Do these conversations come naturally to Coben, or does he sit for hours, finding the perfect snappy comeback?

They fit together and, as a reader, you fit as well.

If you don't know Myron Bolitar - and like a mystery you won't see coming - pick up 1995's Deal Breaker. And let me know what you thought...

Writer's Digest Pop Fiction Contest

Click through for details. Cash prizes, etc.

http://michellereynoso.blogspot.com/2009/07/contest-alert-writers-digest-pop.html

Agents

It's now been 54 weeks since I finished my first novel and 51 weeks since I first started contacting agents about representation on that first novel. Please keep in mind that, at the time, my novel was little more than a first draft. Most of my reaching out was done in July 2008. I did a little more at the end of August and in the first week of September.

By this time, I'd re-read BENEFICIARY a few times. The flaws were clearer to me with some distance. I re-wrote the first few chapters, feeling the difference in my style from 2006 to 2008. It became obvious that more work was needed and I put brakes on the submission process.

In September 2008, I wasn't ignorant to economic conditions, believe me. I was out of work by choice and facing a failing job market. My public market investments were suffering, even as I sold them to generate cash to keep me afloat in the absence of a steady paycheck. BUT, was I truly cognizant of how the macro would affect the flooded fiction market? It wasn't until 6 or more months later that I read about publishing freezes at large shops. And it made perfect sense, of course.

Discretionary income is down, purchasing books (for most people) is something that can be dialed back. Readers can use their local library more often, borrow from friends, follow your mouse to GoogleBooks. I just didn't see it at the time. I believed my first draft beyond reproach.

--Naive first time author--

All that aside, what did I get from agents?

The first agency I contacted, perhaps the largest, took sixty days to request fifty pages and another sixty days to turn me down. The second agency responded in ten minutes, asking to see the entire manuscript. It only took him seven days to turn me down. From there, many form letters and emails followed and my spirits sank a little with each one. Two or three more asked to see the first fifty pages, but it never went farther than that. A former colleague of mine introduced me (via email) to a friend of his who had recently started her own agency. She took one hundred pages and offered my first "industry" feedback. The suggestions were part complimentary and part critical; and most of all, they were encouraging and helpful.

The rejection letters bothered me much less at the end of the three month process. I came to understand that I didn't have a manuscript that was ready for agents, much less publishers. It needed an overhaul and that is now my third bullet point on the literary "To Do" list (the first being to complete my second novel and the second being to attend a Mystery Writers conference in November 2009).

Frankly, I think "A Hunger", my second effort, will be agent-ready before "BENEFICIARY", and by then, I'll be in the beginning stages of working out my third idea.

To answer my original agent question, I got a few valuable things from the rejection process.
1) A feel for timing and what to expect.
2) Constructive comments (few and far between, but they were there)
3) A renewed sense that - Yes, with more work, I still believe I can get published
4) The feeling I needed to learn more about self-publishing ;)
5) Kindling

Riptides

Just wanted to acknowledge my fellow bloggers and co-workers at ABS Ventures. Their new blog, titled RIPTIDES, is up and running at:

http://absventures.wordpress.com

Aging a protagonist; juggling time frames

Carter A. Waterman, Jr., the protagonist in "A Hunger", is 16 and 17 years old when a bulk of the first half of the book takes place. At times, I've thought this a handicap. Could a teenager think along these lines (because let's face it, I'm not purposely trying to think younger myself, just letting it flow out)? My "creative consultant", who for now we'll refer to only as Marie, says it works - Carter's views can be condescending and immature.

But would aging him two years give me more flexibility? Should he be a more independent entity? That, I suppose, is the question I struggle with. I find myself thinking, Jeez, if his car sets on fire in Maine, that'll create some 'splaining he has to do back home. Fine, but Carter talking his way out of every little detail with his mom isn't necessarily something I care to write.

Sure, this could serve as a comic backstory or another arc I hadn't envisioned originally. It could round the charcters of his parents who, so far, we don't really see. BUT, would those things only distract from what it is I'm trying to tell, from the story arc and the questions I'm asking of myself through Carter and his explorations?

Similar to 'should he be aged', my chosen (so far) time setting can give me fits. 1993 and 1994 are the years we're dealing with. This has forced me to think of cell phones and the internet in 1994 terms. Good for me, intellectually maybe, rather than defaulting to what is 'now'. But is it spending time and efforts for a good reason? Why did I choose those years? Those are the years in which I was 16 and 17...

Also, I have interludes between chapters in which Carter is an adult (31 years old in 2008, if that matters) reflecting in the present on the situation and, ultimately, how events of 1994 have affected his adult life.

The beauty of novels - the decision is mine, as are all such creative decisions. But deciding what makes the most sense, what will work for the audience is a tall task. At least, it seems tall to me. All this planning - it doesn't fit my normal procedure. I prefer to sit, read the last chapter, and take off at a run. I have little idea where the ramblings may take me each day, beyond a very sketch plan. The uncertainty (which I have a hard time with in real life) is the aspect of writing I enjoy most.

In the end, I hope it leads to prose that real readers can also enjoy...

Lately, random thoughts...

My current project, A Hunger, is going well. I've just crossed the targeted halfway point. Sadly, there's no way I'll get it done in 12 months (July 2 being the anniversary of its start). Considering I wrote zero from August 1 through December 28, 2008, perhaps I can cut those lost months from my target and give myself new, cheated hope.

I feel strongly about my protagonist, the force that makes any story go (it's in plotting that I have a tougher time), and I offer a little here:

Carter A. Waterman, Jr. is a Worcester County kid with a penchant for bad dreams. His teenage years are wrought with prophetic (not to mention timely) dreams which hint at deeper meanings. Carter's life is thrown into flux when, on a vacation to Maine, he spots an attractive young sunbather who bears an eerie resemblance to his girlfriend back home.

Feelings of danger persist and in following the sunbather, Carter comes in contact with a fortune teller with a gift. She "sees" and tells of a horrible version of Carter's future.

But why, a year later, is Carter in the sights of an immigrant drug dealer, recently released from a Maine state prison? And what is the fortune teller's role in the murders that begin to proliferate whenever Carter returns to Maine - to the beach front vacation spot where it all began?

What am I?

In the June 2009 issue of The Writer Magazine, Richard Goodman tells us he wrote his first book at age 46, after years in the advertising industry. He told people, "I'm in advertising, but I really want to write."

This has been me. I've been told it's not good to let your career define you, but I am an accountant. I'm an accountant, but I really want to write. And I do. Through blocks and flaws in plotting, through snappy dialogue and action scenes that work, I'm headed in the "write" direction. One novel down (needs some re-writing) and another halfway there, I'll get there.

I'll state it here, for all who may read. I'll state it for myself as much as for anyone who may be a doubter. I'm a writer.

Read to Write

I have the privilege of receiving monthly newsletters on the art of writing from best-seller Joseph Finder. Joe has written several thrillers set in corporate environments including Paranoia, Company Man and Killer Instinct (check him out at http://joefinder.com).

The April 2009 edition featured the concept of influences and reading as learning to write. I won't rehash. Joe strongly advocates reading and reading what you love. Your early voice as a writer may echo those authors. But as you learn, as you grow, a new voice emerges. Your voice emerges.

What do I read? Two things.

First, I love all mysteries, but particularly procedurals. These usually involve someone in law enforcement, maybe a private investigator, an antagonist with a cross to bear, and lots of clues. I absolutely love the way authors like Nelson DeMille, Stephen J. Cannell, Dennis Lehane have laid out clues for you to find and tie them to a list of possible perps. All the while, we learn about the demons of our heroes and the desires of our villains. Other early influences of mine were Harlan Coben, Brian Haig and Daniel Silva.

Second, I can't get enough of Stephen King. Salem's Lot is my favorite work of fiction, period. Right up there, the epic quest for the Dark Tower is fueled as much by the tortured character of Roland of Gilead as by the landscape through which he travels. King's descriptive talents are beyond compare and I think what makes him so good (beyond his general genius) is the ability to build a world and describe it in detail while remaining concise. Two pages to describe a hallway ending with a door would have me mention Tom Clancy and helicopter specs. No thanks.

My goal, specifically in my second novel, is to blend descriptive power and a little of the supernatural with a procedural mystery.

It is timely, then, that I recently came across Dublin's John Connolly. I was trying to find new authors to tackle. Connolly can be found in the Mystery section and writes about a PI named Charlie Parker operating in the Portland, Maine area. Connolly also blends PI mystery aspects with the paranormal. I'm excited to read the whole series as well as Connolly's two stand alone novels.

Did I mention that A Hunger takes place in Old Orchard Beach and the surrounding area?

I find it both ironic and prescient that I discover Connolly now, concurrent with work on A Hunger. As I finished work on Beneficiary, a co-worker compared it to Lehane, which I had never read. Aside from the stylistic compliment, it led me to read the Patrick Kenzie/Angela Gennaro series and beyond. Lehane is phenomenal in his structuring and setup and I can only hope to attain a fraction of his skill.

Next weekend, I'll be in and around Portland, ME myself. In addition to 5,000 words, my goal is to do a little setting research (get a few streets right, check out the layout and write a good description of the Maine Medical Center in downtown Portland, etc.).

"A Hunger", Chapter 11

At Jess' request, another excerpt from my current work:

I woke calling out, “No!”, tears blurring my vision. Three words pulsed in my head, an anthem I couldn’t disprove or silence.
Avery is dead.
I felt strongly it had come to pass. Had I stalked her in what was actually a waking dream? Had I stabbed the girl I loved, the one who traveled with my parents to Maine to visit my hospital bed?
My eyes tried to establish my surroundings. I sat up in bed, not sure I was still in the hospital. My sight burned and blurred and I wasn’t sure if it was my tears or the pain of the dream.
Avery is dead.
A soft voice I didn’t recognize said, “You’ll be OK.” It was light, female, and confident. It also came off, maybe in my confusion, as presumptuous and arrogant.
My sorrow turned on a dime and I was out of bed to my right in one fluid motion. It was the act of pushing off my elbows that told me I wasn’t in the hospital, or even in a bed. The softness beneath me didn’t have much give – like cushions spread over a cement floor. Only then did I smell remnants of a full night of incense burning. I was in Ms. Twilight’s lair.
“I won’t be OK,” I exploded. It poured out and scared me a little, but not enough to stop what I was doing.
“Calm down,” the voice pleaded and I placed it, but that didn’t stop me either. In less than two seconds I crossed fifteen feet of pillowed floor and took Bianca, the other-Avery, down with a right cross. She never saw it coming and never had a chance.
Bianca called out in surprise, but I didn’t let it go farther than that. I fell to my knees on her chest and clamped both hands on her throat.
Avery is dead. I both heard and felt the phrase and took it as a taunt. It was as if the girl beneath me, with no oxygen reaching her brain, was now mocking me. Her face was screwed up, trying to suck air past my clenched fingers. Was she mocking Avery’s pain? My pain? Was she trying to crack a smile at me, even as she died?

Now, as I write this account with fifteen years to reflect, I know Bianca wasn’t egging me on as she gasped for one last breath. I’d describe it all now as the thought process of a crazed lunatic. And on that night, that’s what I was – a crazed fucking lunatic.

After all, it seemed as if my dreams had already decided my path – that of a killer – and Avery Brodeur, who I professed to love, wore a bull’s eye. I tried to tell myself none of the subconscious bullshit mattered. I wasn’t CT and I didn’t know his blond victim. Shit, I didn’t think I could wield a knife with the calculated precision of either dream. And I certainly wouldn’t – couldn’t – hurt my Avery.

Why, then, all the signs? Why did I hear Avery calling out to me on the car ride to Maine? Why had I been seemingly drawn to Bianca, Avery’s dead ringer? Then there was my first encounter with Ms. Twilight and what she’d seen me doing in her vision. Finally in this heap of (was paranormal the right term? I still don’t know) evidence was my dream in which I stabbed Avery, herself.

Before Bianca’s death, I was so sure all those things didn’t matter. They didn’t have to matter. But in the wake of her death – of my murdering her – vague shadows of an undesirable future started to solidify, if only a little. Hadn’t I taken the first step toward fulfilling the other visions? Would there be other victims? Would more of my loved ones be those victims?

My hands retreated slowly from her throat. My white knuckles offered a heavy contrast to the red finger lines already forming across Bianca’s neck. I fell to my left, rolling off the body and pushed up to my feet.

There was no stumbling this time. I complied with the only thought I had. Run. I burst out of Ms. Twilight’s front door and sprinted past the carousel, turning left up Old Orchard Beach Road. For all I knew at that moment, it could have been the same day Ms. Twilight had visited me in the hospital or it could have been a week later.

The carnival area was deserted and I assumed it was after midnight. I’d never seen this area so empty of life and the silence, beyond my footfalls, frightened me.

A handful of cars took up the metered spots running west up the slightly inclined road, less than a quarter-mile long. A shout in the distance, behind me and to my right, nearly made me jump out of my shoes, but I made it for a few drunken revelers getting all they could out of another summer night in Maine.

With no idea where I was headed or what my immediate objective was, I turned left at the top of the hill onto Route 5, which led to downtown Saco and Interstate 95. I settled to a walk, realizing I should probably try to look just a hair less panicked.

Headlights came up on me from behind. A dark Ford Taurus passed, likely making their way back to their hotel. I spotted what seemed to be stationary headlights ahead and to my left.
Rounding a slight bend, I saw the source and my stomach tried to make its way up my throat and into my mouth. An Old Orchard Beach police cruiser was parked in the otherwise empty BeachSide Drug and Pharmacy parking lot. The drug store was dark, except for track lights running along the signage over the sliding doors.

I had to figure the officer had spotted me. It was a near certainty unless he was asleep, so I had no choice but to continue at my leisurely pace and pass right in front of his car.

I gave his car another glance and saw he was, in fact, upright and awake. I averted my eyes to the front, following the quiet road as Route 5 made another bend to the right and toward a series of run down motels. I thought I might whistle, as everyone knows that whistling equals innocence - or maybe, just the opposite. Sadly, I can’t whistle. For whatever reason, I was never able to pick up the intricate skills required of the lips and tongue, working in tandem like brass and percussion sections of an organic orchestra.

As I passed through the beams of the cruiser’s headlights, my mouth in a silent circle to feign a whistle, the transmission groaned. The officer backed out of the parking space and went for the exit. My heart raced, but really what could I do? If I took off like a bolt, I’d be fleeing on foot in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I might as well write a confession. Without halting my forward momentum, I wagered a glance back toward the parking lot entrance. I thought if Bianca’s body had been found this quickly (and that was very unlikely), that he’d open up with a siren and flashing lights and I could at least watch him make the right back down Old Orchard Beach Road before I ran for it.

No lights, no siren. In fact, the officer turned left out of the parking lot and moved in the same direction I was headed, passing me without a glance. The only downside was that he’d be able to recall me as someone leaving the relative area once the body was found.

Frankly, I didn’t care. He would have no idea who the hell I was in a tourist town and, ideally, I’d be back home before much of an investigation could be mounted.

I kept my pace, casual but steady, and came upon a darkened Getty gas station and service shop. There was very little parking lot here and no lights at all, save for a small white and blue bell insignia over a tilting payphone.

For a moment, I thought I’d try to reach my parents. If they were still in Maine, I could catch a ride at the very least. If they were still in Maine, I assumed they were staying in Biddeford near the hospital, probably along Route 111. That would be a long walk from where I was. It would take hours and I felt a mounting pressure to get off the streets. Then again, if murder investigations in small Maine towns were as sophisticated as television made them out to be, a call made so close to Bianca’s time of death could ultimately be traced to them.

No. It was better to at least get to Route 1 in Saco before trying to get a ride.

Upcoming

Well, my 6 weeks helping out back at ABS Ventures is over. The bad news is, How will I put food on the table? The good news: I don't have to convince myself to write. I can just get back to my fixed, 3 hours a week or whatever escape I can manage.

But is this good?

Ask any popular published author. Read their websites. In order to do this - to write - you have to write. You have to write when you're inspired, but you also have to write when it seems difficult. If you want to be a professional author, to derive income from the writing you love, you have to treat the pursuit like a career; or worse, a job.

I haven't been able to get there yet. I seem to need the perfect conditions. Very frustrating.

My upcoming mission, if I choose to accept it, is to fix the bugs that prevent me from sitting each night and making progress.

Chapter 6 from the novel I'm currently working on; "A Hunger"

After a filling dinner of clam fritters and fish and chips, Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp headed to a local watering hole by the beach. Johnny and I walked them down the hill from our motel to the Old Orchard Beach Pier and promised not to stay out too late. The beach-side carnival glimmered in the night, an oasis of electric fun along the miles and miles of beach. I could hear the waves lapping in a rhythmic pulse and figured the tide was coming in.

The beach at night smells much different than it does during the day. Sun block and surf are replaced, at Old Orchard anyway, by fried dough and pheromones. Laughter and pitched conversations surrounded us as we crossed by the circular water fountain and headed first for the arcade. Several people sat around the fountain’s base eating pizza and cotton candy and drinking who knows what out of paper cups.

I wasted $10 each on Beachhead and Star Wars while Johnny got laughed at by a group of pre-adolescents for his foibles at QuickShot, the basketball simulation with an obscenely narrow rim.

Johnny had just dipped his face into frozen lemonade when I saw her. My left hand shot out and found my friend’s ribs. He spluttered, coughed and wiped his nose as the icy treat entered his nostrils and splashed his forehead, then spilled on his shoes.

“There she is,” I said without taking my eyes from her.

“Who, goddammit?”

“Who do you think?” He shrugged, not taking the time even to look up from the slippery mess that had been so promising a purchase. “Orange bikini at eleven o’clock.”

I broke off the conversation, leaving Johnny staring at the ground, and started a brisk power-walk toward the girl. Despite the reference point I’d used, she was no longer clad in her swimwear. Her look was now more appropriate for a night of merriment, teenage style. I focused, per my preferences, on her white spaghetti-strap tank top. It hugged her as nicely as her bikini top had, though it was made up of much more material. The tank top was complimented by Daisy Duke-style cutoff jean shorts and purple flip-flops. Her hair was down, something my Avery rarely did, and perhaps an inch past her shoulders.

My Avery, as if the one I was now stalking was someone else’s Avery.

She hadn’t seen me and likely wouldn’t. I’d caught her in profile and she had now turned away from me, flanked by two other girls. They were proceeding, three across, out the far end of the arcade and toward the kiddie rides area.

I stopped short, maybe fifteen feet behind her, as the three were accosted by two haughty older boys. The girls (I’d guess they were all closer to sixteen) scoffed at the crooked hats and tattooed arms and made a quick right turn.

“Slow down, you psycho.” Johnny was back at my shoulder, offering his typical encouragements.

“I need a better look at her face. Don’t ask me why.”

“You need your fucking head examined.” He was still licking the frozen lemonade off his fingers. I could smell the citrus aroma and probably would until he scrubbed it off with turpentine.

I wasn’t close enough to make out conversation between the three girls, but for some reason, I was OK with that. I didn’t need to hear her. I needed to look into her eyes. They laughed enthusiastically, as teenage girls do, and the sound chilled me. It was as if I was following my girlfriend’s ghost. I could watch her, but a dark veil prevented interaction of any kind.

She circled the kiddie rides, finishing by the orcas that dipped and rose in a sickening circle. Small children laughed and waved to parents, their heads thrown back each time the whale hit the track’s trough and turned up again. I maintained my distance and other-Avery, as I thought of her, retraced the original path in the reverse direction, then forked right toward the grand carousel and the beach entrance by the pier. Johnny padded along next to me in silence, struck that way by the sketchiness of our pursuit.

To our left now was a series of kiosks hocking Old Orchard Beach sweatshirts, tank tops, hats, then pizza, fried dough and soft drinks, then all types of tiny ceramic trinkets and costume jewelry. One of the girls with other-Avery stopped and pointed at the fourth kiosk – a fortune teller. The signage over the single door read, MS. TWILIGHT, with menu items below in smaller font – palms, tarot, fortunes told.

Holy shit, I thought. Someone either has a sense of humor and a couple of bucks burning her pockets or someone is a complete quack. Hey, other-Avery, I’m an Aries. Will my girlfriend survive the week without me? I felt another chill. I had no particular feeling either way on the rhetorical question, but still didn’t want to know the answer.

“What are you doing, now?” Johnny reached out for my arm and I felt his fingers brush my elbow as I altered course to match the girls’ maneuver. Ms. Twilight was ‘in session’, as told to us by a small off-white card hanging on her windowed door. The writing was stilted calligraphy and difficult to decipher.

Other-Avery and her cohorts queued up to the door’s left, as suggested by a small painted path on the cement. Without really knowing what I’d do next or why, I darted left and was fourth in line, just behind the object of my day’s obsession.
--
In turn, each of the two unnamed accessories entered, was behind the closed door for five or so minutes and emerged with a skeptical look. As the second went in, the first told other-Avery she needed to powder her nose and would meet the other two by Dunkin Donuts, up Old Orchard Beach Road just beyond the train tracks.

That meant I had five minutes to strike up my courage and engage her in conversation, if only to see her eyes. There was a determination I could make by looking into her eyes, I was sure, even if I had no idea why or what it would tell me.

Before I was ready, Johnny decided it was time to act. Actually, his sinuses did. He let out a vicious sneeze, perhaps to clear out the remainder of the sugary meltings that had been his lemonade. He jarred my left arm and knocked me off balance. Horrified, I took an unsteady step forward and knocked other-Avery’s purse off her shoulder. The purse was huge and pink and bordered on being a backpack. How much can a girl possibly need at a moment’s notice to burden themselves with such a weight at all times?

The back-purse dropped to hang on her wrist and if her hand hadn’t been in her pocket it may have hit the cement. Perhaps, it would have spilled its embarrassing (boys have to assume its innards are of an embarrassing nature, if only to explain the secrecy involved) contents in a small circle. I would’ve had no choice but to help her retrieve her belongings – her intimate belongings.

Uh, sorry miss. Please excuse my clumsiness. Here’s your wallet, if you carry such a thing, and here’s your…um - what the hell is this circle of tiny colored pills for? And why are they four different colors arranged by days of the week?

The purse held fast to her wrist. “I’m very sorry,” I said to her, shooting poor Johnny my best death look.

She leaned around me and to Johnny said, “God Bless you.” Only then did she look up to me. My face flushed, heat prickled at my ears and I averted my gaze. I knew this feeling. When presented with a pretty girl, tradition told me to either run or play stupid. Well, my Avery calls it stupid; I prefer to think of it as cute and innocent.

“I’m Carter.” It was the only thing in my head at the time – my name. Like the world’s biggest tool, I thrust out my right hand, offering her a shake. Idiot. She looked down at my hand, then back at my face. She didn’t take my hand and I never really expected she would.

“Bianca,” she said. Then she did the amazing. She leaned around me again to address my friend. “Your friend’s cute.”

Jesus, this was worse than having knocked a case of condoms out of her purse. My cheeks, ears and neck were on fire. A nervous smile played at the corners of my mouth and I felt an urgent need to say, Aw, shucks.

“Thanks,” I said instead, one sneaker kicking the other. I had nothing more profound. My head was down, my gaze focused on my shoes, but I could discern her looking finally at my face, instead of communicating through witticisms to Beauchamp.

I looked up and met her eyes. Our eyes couldn’t have been two feet away from each other. Bianca had Asian facial and eye features – high cheekbones, the epicanthic fold of the upper eyelid. It made her no less beautiful, but for whatever reason a great weight was lifted from my figurative shoulders. I felt as though I should immediately get on the horn to actual-Avery and organize a celebration. She’d be alright, simply because Bianca was not her ghost, but another human being altogether. Ridiculous? Absolutely; every single word and thought process – but that is how I felt at that moment.

“Kat ran off to the can,” Bianca said to her friend, as the second girl emerged from the kiosk. “I’ll meet you guys.” She gestured with her head in the general direction of the facilities.

Bianca didn’t afford me a second glance. My nose caught a wave of her flowery perfume as her head swung away from me. The girl who was not Avery ducked inside the fortune teller’s kiosk to have her eyes opened, to have her future laid out before her, to have some middle-aged hag recite vagaries in a mystic and mysterious manner.
--
“Goddamn you, Johnny Beauchamp!”

My best friend in the world distracted me for ten seconds to offer me a smothered sausage sandwich (I smelled his approach before I saw him) and I missed Bianca come out of Ms. Twilight’s and disappear.

I was missing something important. There was a reason, as yet unclear to me, that I saw her bikini earlier that day.

I sighed, filed the thoughts away and accepted the greasy sausage covered in sautéed onions and red peppers. The roll was a little hard and the sausage had probably sat out for twelve hours, but I crammed three gargantuan bites in my mouth. I chewed as quickly as I could, scraps falling from my lips, and handed the remaining half sandwich back to Johnny. Tendrils of grease – or was it Avery’s blood – leaked from the day-old bread between my fingers.My visit to Ms. Twilight, however, would reintroduce panic to my system - the way a steak knife never had. I smiled, patted Johnny’s shoulder and crossed destiny’s threshold.

Amazon Breakthrough Novel contest feedback

I was not chosen to progress past the entry process and into the quarterfinals with BENEFICIARY. As I've said in previous posts, I know BENEFICIARY has flaws and a long way to go before it is saleable, but I figured it couldn't hurt to enter. Also, a friend entered last year and I followed the contest to its conclusion as a result (and read FRESH KILLS, the winner).

Blah, blah, blah; enough background. My excerpt was reviewed by two "experts" and two separate sets of feedback were posted today to my CreateSpace account, as follows. I have one word: MIXED.

ABNA Expert Reviewer: This was well written. Clear, to the point, and quick. The dialogue flowed well, it was natural, just as it should be. I read this, and I could imagine actual people talking this way. Depending on how this story goes, it could be something good, or it could be a standard dead beat dad comes around looking for money. I get the feeling this is something a bit more. That maybe Dad the Dead Beat has something more to him. He knows he owes a debt, and is surprised to hear his sons might be coming into some money. So the question here is-Does he go to his sons and will they give him a second chance? Will he find redemption, or will he disappoint them again? Will Tommy bail his father out after all this time, or will he leave him to Roscoe's switchblade? This is something I would read. Again, just from what I have read, I sense something deeper. Something stronger than just your typical story. The characters were well fleshed out, but there wasn't so much given away that we feel as if we know everything already. Good beginning, and I really see some potential!

ABNA Expert Reviewer: This writer writes well, uses words well. He can describe an action scene, and he knows how to built character and makes his characters come alive. But I have an argument with content. This may be me, but a novel that starts with a 50-year-old man being beat up for owing money to the mob is not a turn on. Also, I need quite a bit more than a commitment to volleyball playing to gain my sympathy for the debtor's son (obvious one of the main characters in the novel). The first three-and-one-half pages of chapter 2 describe a volleyball game that doesn't really move the story forward. The main or one of the main characters appearing in chapter one is a fifty-year-old (or more) man who abandoned his family, disappeared for years, owes thirty thousand dollars to the mob and now must contact his sons to try to get them to pay his debt for him. Granted, he may not be the hero, overall, of this novel, but why should I care about this man? I mean, I can feel for him and the situation his mistakes have brought him to. But in the novels I read, I'm looking for more, for a character I like, admire (usually), maybe would even like to emulate. This character, obviously, isn't it.

Another shorter excerpt from BENEFICIARY

Taylor’s emotions ran the gauntlet in the two hours he killed before the 3pm rendezvous. He tried to eat a drive-thru lunch but the thought of Biagiotti putting his hands on Grace and forcing her into the car made Taylor want to vomit. He forced down the fries and half of a large Coke.

He gassed up the rented Taurus and decided another coffee was in order. Far from calming him, the second coffee of the day made his hands quake.


He thought of the gun. Parked in a Dunkin parking lot in Swansea, Massachusetts, Taylor ripped open the glove compartment, pulled out the gun and placed it in his lap. He’d never fired a gun before. He’d never laid a hand on a gun before. The thing looked sturdy enough. He probably wouldn’t accidentally shoot himself. Hopefully.


Mackey had lent him what he’d called an “old 9mm”, like it was a throw away weapon; one Mackey didn’t like and didn’t often break out at a cocktail party. Taylor flipped it over in his lap a few times. It was solid black metal, maybe steel or aluminum, a SIG Sauer P229. Christ, the thought of shooting another person scared the shit out of him and his stomach lurched again. He felt ill.


No, Taylor thought. He inhaled deep, blew the breath out. He’d just been party to a firefight. And for Grace’s safety, he’d lay down his life, he was sure of it. Yes, he reiterated to himself, he’d act with deadly force if it came to that. He shoved the gun inside the McDonalds bag and crumpled the top of the bag down, just some refuse left over from a quick lunch, if anyone were to wander by.


He reclined the driver’s seat and closed his eyes. Involuntarily, Taylor replayed the day’s events in his head again, then moved backward to the weekend.


“Fuck the gun”, he said aloud after a few minutes. “I’m going to get my bare hands on that little turd.” Taylor’s arms tensed. He saw red through his eyelids as he spoke his anger, but the audacity of the words made him smile, if only momentarily.


After another twenty minutes of collecting and organizing thoughts, past and future, Taylor jumped back on 195 West and proceeded to Providence.

Methods

I used to write every night, starting somewhere after 10pm and going until my eyes blurred at midnight, maybe 1am. OK, not every night was wildly productive. At home, sitting on the couch or the floor, my laptop and book and maybe some research materials spread out around me. I'd immerse myself in the world of BENEFICIARY: A Novel.

When I stopped writing altogether from August to end of December 2008, something changed drastically as I tried to settle back into routine. For some reason I cannot write at home now. It drives me crazy. My work on A Hunger has been exclusively at Starbucks in Auburn, MA. Once a week - Thursday or Friday night, and easier since I was out of work - I'd put in three solid hours and they were always three very productive hours. I also continue to do an overnight in Maine alone once per quarter, with 20 pages per night the goal.

Now, at home, I'm victim to distraction and I let them overrun me. At Starbucks I don't have internet access (can't blog or go on Facebook or check box scores on ESPN) or television, no excuses. For whatever reason I am at the mercy of all that other nonsense at home, even though they never bothered me before. It's some type of writer's block and I allow it to best me night after night.

First Excerpt

Chapter 1 of Beneficiary (re-written in 2008):

CHAPTER 1 (1,455 words) Port of Providence, June 16, 2006

The florescent street light lit up the tiny parking lot – more of a strip, really – in a wide yellow oval. Shadows danced along the ground as moths, beetles, flies and several other species of flying insect battled for the lamp’s surface. The aging bulb pulsed and hummed louder than all the bugs swarming its output together.

Hungry for the glow of the lamp, none of the insects took notice when a puttering yellow cab pulled up and a tall, thin man emerged with hesitation.

“You sure this is it?”

“Pretty sure, holmes,” the cab driver said, anxious to switch off his ON DUTY light and smoke a joint.

The thin man paid his fare in silence and watched as the cab managed a clumsy three-point turn and headed back for the security entrance. He could smell salt in the air and teeming life in the sea, only a few yards to his left.

Better than the stale cigarette smoke he’d endured in the cab, he thought.

A chill wind blew off the water. The man glanced up at the bugs and the lone light for a moment, watching the random flight patterns which all led back to the lamp’s warmth.

When the cab’s brake lights faded and the sound of its ancient engine did the same, another set of headlights flashed once at the man and stayed off.

“Great.” The man put a hand to his forehead and wiped at a light coating of sweat. He squinted, leaning slightly forward, and could just discern the outline of a dark colored sedan; big, like a livery vehicle.

His instructions had been to approach the vehicle at this point, but nerves held his feet in place. Instead, he short-armed a wave in the car’s direction.

The man, the car and its occupants remained completely still for a full five minutes. Finally, he heard the clunk of a car-door handle. In the dark, it seemed a car door swung open. Odd though, that interior light didn’t pour forth when the door opened if, in fact, it had.

It had. Three men stepped into the periphery of the lighted oval. Two were white, of average size and hid their faces beneath baseball caps. The middle man, though, was distinct. Pushing six-and-a-half feet tall, the biggest of the three was African-American and shiny bald in the yellowing light. He wore a black t-shirt with the sleeves torn off, the seams stringy and uneven, and his arms were huge. There was no doubt with his body-builder definition, where bicep ended and triceps began.

The big man was smiling.

The thin man took a step backward and realized it’d been a mistake. The two sidekicks sprung at him and a flurry of blows caught his jaw, cheeks, brow. He swayed, but kept his feet, raising his arms for balance. But he knew he couldn’t fend them off, let alone best them. These two were each likely half his 50 years and the big one only slightly older than the others.

A body blow doubled the thin man over and the sidekicks, the opening act, seized a shoulder and arm each and held fast. A hand grabbed his hair in the back of his head and wrenched his neck up. Now, the man had no choice but to look at the big man’s smile. One of his top front teeth was gold. The other was missing.

The big man held out his left forearm and pointed to it with his other hand. A tattoo ran from wrist to elbow and the thin man was sure he was being made a promise, rather than shown a work of ink art. The tattoo was an elongated switchblade – stained with blood.

“Wait,” the thin man managed.

The big man reared back and landed a powerful roundhouse right hand, then a left jab to the nose. Blood poured, as if from a faucet. The man’s vision blurred with the impacts in such quick succession. It was for this reason that he didn’t see the knife come out.

The pain streaked like white heat across thin-man’s left cheek, catching the bridge of his nose. He let out a yelp and collapsed onto his back, the restraining thugs to either side letting him fall. Instinctively and trying to breathe, he rolled to his side as the wind left his lungs with the impact of the cement. He cursed, but the sound was muffled and took too much effort to escape his mouth.

Blood drooled down his nose and into the man’s mouth, picking up sweat on its path, like a running river gathering silt from its banks. He managed to fill his lungs again, the air cool as a drink of water, but the relief was short-lived. The thug to his left dragged him to a kneeling position by the hair.

His tormentor stood over him now, holding a six-inch stiletto. Black eyes blazed, then he smiled again.

“Debt,” the monster said.

“Wh-what?”

“Debt,” he repeated. “I don’t recommend getting into it.”

“Are you some kind of f-fucking collections agent?”

The knife-blade shook slightly as the wielder laughed. The yellow light from above shone off the metal and danced across the thin man’s face.

“That’s one way to put it. Yes.”

“Where’d you get that tattoo?”

With no indicator it was coming, the monster jabbed the butt of the knife handle into the slash wound on the thin man’s nose. Blood spurted this time, the small gash opened wide by the blunt force trauma. He fell hard onto his back again and thought, if he could prevent it, he should never get up again.

“You’ve been missing a long time now.” The bigger man gestured with his head back toward the car. “He told me you owe him $30 thousand.”

“Giuseppe,” the thin man said with a little excitement. “Is your boss Giuseppe Biagiotti? He knows me. We can work something out.”

“No. Not Giuseppe. Giuseppe’s been in prison for seven years now.” He issued a wave in the car’s direction. Again, the thin man perceived the door open, heard it close, but saw little more than shadows, as when the first three emerged.

A fourth man sauntered over to the lighted oval. Short, he was dressed in a navy suit and a red, checked tie. On the left lapel was a tiny Italian flag. His face was neutral. The black hair was wet and slicked back flat on his smallish head. The thin man thought the newcomer was somehow familiar.

In a calm, deep voice, the new suit man said, “Help our friend to his feet, Roscoe.” The knife-monster obliged, dragging the thin man up by his coat.

That voice! It’d been twenty years and the suit guy had grown up and filled out, but there was no mistaking the voice. The thin man’s mouth dropped open and he stammered, “Andreo? Andreo Biagiotti?”

“Yes, hello cousin. It’s been, what, twenty years, Tommy?”

“Twenty-one, I think.”

Biagiotti nodded. “Unfortunately for you, the fact that you are family does not alleviate your debt.” His eyes narrowed and his tone changed, like he’d flipped a switch on his emotion chip. Andreo pointed at his cousin, putting an exclamation on his anger. “You fucking owe me! And you may have forgotten what was done for you, but I haven’t.”

“Your father helped me out of a tough spot…”

“And what did he get for his troubles? A fucking federal conviction. So, with my old man in prison, your fate lies with me.” He glanced down at his watch. “Your account is long overdue.”

Biagiotti smoothed his hair back with both hands and the gesture seemed to calm him. “Roscoe would prefer to settle the debt in one fashion,” he said with resumed composure. Roscoe the Knife-Monster smiled, shaking the blade between thumb and forefinger. “But I,” Andreo started again, “being a business man, would simply prefer to get paid.”

“I don’t have any money, Andreo.”

Biagiotti grinned. “Both of your sons are of age, aren’t they?” He paused. “I believe the younger, Jason, recently celebrated his twenty-third birthday. Both boys are now eligible to get their greasy mitts directly on the cash in their trust accounts. I should know. After all, I drafted the trust documents myself.”

Trusts? Tommy’s sons didn’t have trust accounts – not that he knew of, anyway.

“I want what’s mine,” Biagiotti said. “You get my money, or Roscoe introduces himself to the boys.”

The thin man nodded.

“Say the fucking words. Tell me you get it.”

“I understand.”

The four thugs – two sidekicks, Roscoe the Knife-Monster and his cousin Andreo – turned on heels and returned to the car. It started with a purr and, moments later, was gone.

What are you reading?

Brief time out from writing -

I'm reading Barry Eisler's newest novel, Fault Line. I hope it picks up because I am a huge John Rain fan.

Also, because Fault Line is a library book and came at an inopportune time, I'm smack dab in the middle of The Talisman, by Stephen King and Peter Straub. An epic journey told all in one volume - Imagine!

Finally, Ludlum's Sigma Protocol is on my iPod right now as well. I have to say that Robert Ludlum is very hit or miss for me. I think Sigma is missing.

A few upcoming books in my queue - Lehane's Shutter Island, Ludlum's Bourne Ultimatum, Daniel Silva's The Marching Season

Hello again...

First, I have to point out that co-worker and published tech author Jim ripped me today for having only three posts before giving up. And so I return for this game, at least for three more posts.

Between July 2, 2008 and September 24, 2008 I contacted 30 or so agents. A handful asked to see the first 50 pages. One even offered several constructive comments. None, however, thought it was the type of project that fit "their list". And that's fine with me, for now.

My first novel, titled BENEFICIARY, was written over two years - 6/8/06 to 6/7/08. The reason I say above that it's fine with me is that only now can I really, honestly see the glaring flaws in my style and structure. The first third of the book, from 2006, might as well have been written by a different author than the final third.

I'd prefer to rewrite most chapters to make it consistent with how I write NOW, very different than how I wrote 2+ years ago. That's a bear of a project though, and quite frankly, feels like jogging in place rather than moving forward.

My second book - for now titled A Hunger - is coming along great. I'd say I'm ~40% done and the goal is to shorten the total time to 12 months. July 2, 2009. Can it be done?

Coming soon: excerpts from both books